


Dance With Me

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon, F/M, Sleazy pete being his usual sleaze self - what else would you expect?, Tagged as underage because it's book sansa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 02:23:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12049344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: Petyr watches his daughter dance with Harry and wonders if he could have a dance with her too.





	Dance With Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ocularis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ocularis/gifts).



> Prompt: dancing (instructor), for @catladyofthecanals on tumblr. The title comes from the song 'Tanz mit mer' by Faun (which is v good!)
> 
> [This is during/after the TWOW Alayne chapter. Ended up waaaay longer with a lot more plot and a little less dance instructing than I originally thought (oops). But I think my Petyr is sleazy enough to make up for that.
> 
> I hope you like it!!! :D ]

 

          The feast was lovely. The food – sixty-four dishes from all across the Vale, a sight and smell to rival that of the  _ waste _ at the beloved purple wedding – cooked and seasoned perfectly. The dessert: a giant Giant’s Lance, twelve feet tall, requiring more lemons than the Vale had. For  _ Robert _ , the cooks were told. (Robert was ecstatic when it had been wheeled in, but Petyr paid the boy no mind. It wasn’t his reaction to the  _ subtle  _ cake that Petyr delighted in). The musicians were splendid, and they were directed not to sing (poor little Robert had grown terrified of singing since Marillion pushed his dear mother out the Moon Door. A wonder no one else had done that sooner). Their fingers deftly plucked strings to all the cheery renditions of beloved tunes. Cups were constantly filled. Dancers took the floor in a flurry of skirts and gossip. All of it, lovely. 

          But his daughter was the loveliest thing in the hall that night.

          Petyr couldn't take his eyes from her. 

          Being a  _ bastard  _ (with none of the looks of a bastard save the crude dye that transformed her from Stark to Stone) meant Sansa had to sit below him and the high lords and ladies that came for the tourney. Though being the Lord Protector’s daughter meant she could sit above the rabble. Some place in the middle, a place she wasn't used to during her time in Winterfell or King's Landing (or even in the few months up in the Eyrie. Petyr always made sure his daughter had more than everything a bastard could ever hope for). But Sansa had to get used to it, like the brown hair, like the woolen dresses.

          Like the plot that was slowly knitting together, wrapping her in threads of grey and green and red.

          The two  _ boys  _ sat as far as possible in the hall. Which would have been less ridiculous had one of them not been eight years old and wet himself this morning (Petyr instructed Maester Coleman: “A pinch of sweetsleep, to help calm the little lord with the crowds.” Maester Coleman, like always, wrung his hands, gave complaints, and did what he was told). 

          The other one – a pity he wasn't as uncomely as Petyr might have hoped. Tall and strong with a well-defined jaw. Strong hands, soft hair, a kindly smile whenever he managed to find something entertaining. The image made flesh of gallant knights from songs.

          Petyr sipped his wine, gaze moving back to his daughter. Watched flamelight flicker above her – whispering the truth beneath the brown. He'd imagined the day of her wedding more times than even  _ Sansa _ had. The lofty halls of the Eyrie bedecked in tapestries of sky blue and cream. Oranges and purples and blood reds of the fading sun filtering through the narrow windows. The gasps of the crowd as she entered, fiery auburn hair a stark contrast against her maiden cloak of ivory and cream and opal. And beneath that: a delicate dress of lace and silks, hugging her body, ivory of Stark and sapphire of Tully (and, should he have his way, a bit of silver for her  _ current lineage _ of mockingbird). A sight to behold. 

          Sometimes, after a few too many cups, Petyr imagined himself in Harry's place.

          He was with his daughter now, Sansa finally allowing the boy the honor of her dance (Petyr delighted in the Falcon’s disappointment when she rejected his first advance. As if he wasn't used to  _ pretty little things  _ saying no. Which, given his parentage, was likely). They danced, getting lost in the throng of other pairs. Stepping and twirling with grace Petyr expected of her, and was disappointed in him. She had said something that made Harry the Heir laugh as he spun her.  _ Good.  _ Not that Petyr was afraid Sansa  _ couldn't _ bewitch the Young Falcon. Sansa could bewitch a sack of potatoes into life for the chance of her attention, that was sure. But this was only the first night of many that she would need to prove herself as more than a baseborn daughter of a disliked lord (people were warming up to Petyr, but they would never let him forget the small strip of rocks and shit that was his  _ true  _ home. Not the lofty seat of the Eyrie - which to be honest, wasn’t as comfortable as the Vale lords whined about). 

          Harrold laughed again, and Sansa was smiling, too, though mirth was hidden behind a momentary  _ fear _ that she said something wrong. That, and when she spun around again, Sansa glanced at Petyr. 

          Did she know he had only been looking at her the whole night? Probably. Where  _ else  _ would Petyr’s focus be drawn to than the most beautiful maiden in the room? Her skirts swirling about her legs. Loose strands of her chestnut hair coming undone and framing her warm face. Arms glistening from the torches. Laughter spilling from her lips.

          The loveliest thing in all the seven kingdoms.

          Did she know he was also imagining her with him? Probably not. Her skirts bunched at her waist, baring her smooth, creamy legs for him. Loose strands of her chestnut hair coming undone from where he threaded his fingers as he tasted her lips, pulling her face into his. Arms glistening with the effort to pull Petyr into her, too, as he worked dutifully between her legs. Pleas of  _ more  _ spilling from her lips.

          No, she probably didn’t. Nor could she imagine the unfathomable depth of these _pretty pictures_ that plagued him. 

          His cock twitched. Petyr adjusted his seat.

          The song closed on a one-two beat. Laughter and clapping in the hall fading into the quiet silence as feet shuffled along the stone and the musicians stretched fingers before plunging into the next tune. Harry the Heir parted ways with a kiss to Sansa's hand, and words likely: “May I wear your favor in the lists tomorrow?”

          “You may not,” Petyr read on Sansa's lips. “It is promised to…another.”

          “Who?”

          Sansa casually (or as casually as she could make it appear) glanced about the room. Petyr spied her doing this during the last notes of the song – likely trying to figure out  _ who  _ a bastard like her would favor in the jousts. Any one of the sixty-four combatants aside from the one in her arms. And for a heartbeat, less than that – Sansa met Petyr's gaze. 

          Wouldn't that be a sight? Sansa kneeling before the dias, presenting her lord father the gift of her affections, of her heart, of her love. And to seal it with a kiss as a  _ dutiful _ daughter would?

          The love the Vale had for him would collapse, what little there was.

          “I still think it would best to sell the grains  _ now _ whilst the lords are begging to spill their purses for them,” Lord Grafton complained, drawing Petyr's attention from his daughter and the brave knight she chose. It wouldn't matter  _ who _ , so long as it wasn't Harry. He trusted his daughter chose wisely. 

          Petyr drained the remainder of his wine. He’d hoped to silence Grafton and Belmore on the issue of keeping their stores until the lords were  _ truly _ desperate. But it seemed they wanted to prove they knew better than Petyr (better than the man who restored Gulltown it’s purses all those years ago? Or the man who was Master of Coin for the King for several years? Granted, Petyr was a  _ terrible _ Master of Coin in secret logbooks, only because he made sure the crown would owe thousands upon thousands of dragons to every kingdom and bank east and west of the Narrow Sea. But no one knew that, least of all the lords of the Vale). So Petyr spent the final dances confined to the dais, going on and on about the banal grainary conversation with the Lord Grafton beside him and his lovely daughter in his sights.

          The revelry soon petered out. Jousting would begin before noon tomorrow, and the knights didn't want to tire themselves out too terribly with dance and wine when there were honors and wings to be won. Little Robert had gone to sleep hours ago, the Maester claiming he had an altitude sickness since coming down from the Eyrie (over a month ago, and still the lie stuck. It was either that, or the revelation of their gallant Lord Arryn’s true sickness). Petyr decided Robert had enough of the sweetsleep for the night.  _ Too much _ and  _ too soon _ would be…problematic.

          Petyr wished the knights good luck in the lists and the lords and ladies good night.

          The musicians had filed out of the hall, and serving men and women remained to right the tables and chairs and clear away cups. Someone had retched their sixty-four courses in the corner, the stink of which couldn’t be drowned by wine and sweat. Petyr pitied the serving hand that mopped it away.

          “Alayne, I’d like to go over the tourney logistics for tomorrow.” 

          His sweet daughter had been directing the serving hands along with Myranda, both of whom were coming off of a bout of giggles when Petyr addressed her. Sansa bid her  _ friend _ goodnight with a hug. Her friend, meanwhile, kept her eyes on Petyr. Petyr didn’t know what to think about of Myranda Royce other than she was – despite her genial and warm appearance –  _ dangerous _ . He’d told as much to Sansa, but still. The softness of laughter and hugs would make it easy to lull Sansa’s tongue loose. Too long had his daughter been away from any womanly companionship – well, companionship that didn’t involve her death. A pity it had to be  _ this  _ girl.

          Petyr detested the way Myranda smiled at him as he awaited Sansa. Petyr smiled back, too, because it wouldn’t bode well to disappoint Nestor or his daughter.

          He wrapped an arm around Sansa’s shoulders as he led her out of the hall and towards their chambers. Not the  _ same _ chamber, but in the same wing. Close enough (and  _ not _ close enough). Worse, was the proximity of Robert. His cries at night were fewer now, with the weekly sweetsleep lulling pleasant quiet from him. But they were bad enough when he did have latenight fits that Petyr stopped bothering to try falling back to sleep.

          “Might I ask whom my daughter has favored tomorrow? Or shall it be a secret?” Sansa’s body was warm, her cheeks rosy with wine and mirth. Petyr wished to stare at it all night.

          “You can  _ guess _ if you wish, Father, but I will assure you it wasn’t Harry.”

          “Good. I can only imagine he was rather upset at that?”

          “Upset enough.”

          “And what do you think of the Young Falcon now? Still think him as cruel as before?”

          Sansa kept quiet for a minute, thinking. Their footsteps echoed against the stone walls, following them up the stair as Petyr led them to their wing. The guard posted at Robert’s door glanced at them with boredom as they stepped onto the landing. Petyr entertained the idea that any one of the lords or ladies or knights could murder the young Arryn before Sansa had a chance to weasel herself into the family line. And wouldn’t that be a sight of chaos? Everyone accusing each other – everyone pleased, finally, to depose the mockingbird sitting upon a throne far too large for his ass?

          Sansa finally said: “He is easily swayed by beauty.”

          Petyr delighted in her answer, not failing to note the certain  _ avoidance _ of whether or not the Heir was still cruel or not. Likely not. But that’s what Sansa imagined of her princely Joffrey in a lifetime ago. 

          That’s what Petyr imagined of his own Harrold upon the shores of the Trident.

          “That he is, but so is any young knight or lord. The gods were kind to give my daughter a pretty face.”

          She didn’t say anything to that, nor did she comment when Petyr unlocked the door to his rooms and offered her to enter. As if she  _ knew _ exactly where Petyr wished to lead her tonight.

          “If you will, sweetling, bring me the wine. I’m rather thirsty.” Not truly – there had been ample cups at the feast. But  _ something _ made his throat itch at the sight of Sansa. A thirst quenched by the sight of her. The feel, the taste.

          Petyr poured two cups of Arbor gold and offered one to Sansa. She took it, but did not drink.

          “Do you have any guesses who might win their wings tomorrow, Alayne?”

          Sansa went through her list of the knights, paring down the possible winners to a dozen. Harry was one of them of course. When prompted if any of the knights she listed to win was one she gave her favor to, Sansa merely shrugged and took a sip of her wine.

          He stared at her throughout. The hidden softness in her eyes that she kept away from prying eyes. The nervous way she twirled the stem of her goblet as she expressed her thoughts, afraid perhaps to be  _ wrong _ . The rare smile when Petyr acknowledged her ideas as clever. He stared at her so  _ obviously _ that it wasn’t a matter of whether or not Sansa caught his lingering gaze, but when and how often. She said nothing, moved nothing to block his view. Waiting, watching. Her own eyes – when Petyr had finally returned his gaze to her perfect face – watching him with a certain curiosity. Wondering, perhaps,  _ how far _ Petyr would go tonight. A peck on the lips? Fingers through her hair? Hands roving over – or under – her skirts?

          Petyr drained his cup and held out his hand, a smile pulling on his lips. “Dance with me, sweetling. Show me how you bewitched Harry with song.” 

          Her brows furrowed. “There isn’t any music to dance to…” Sansa said, her lie as weak as the resolve she was fighting against. Petyr could see it in the momentary twitch of her arm towards his – pulled back against her side.

          “Then we’ll have to make our own, sweetling,” he said, not bothering to hide the smile that caught his lips. It was the wine, perhaps, loosening the restraints on his thoughts that night. And just the  _ sight  _ of Sansa. Her presence. Something about her always loosened a thread in his chest.

          Sansa was perfect.

          Harrold did not deserve her. 

          But Harry the Heir had advantages that Petyr did not. A good name, for start. The adoration of the Vale. Youth. 

          But he didn't hold – _could_ _never hold_ – Sansa's true affections. 

          Those were  _ Petyr's.  _

          She took a small sip of her own Arbor gold before placing the cup beside his, taking Petyr’s hand in hers.  _ As a lady’s courtesies required _ . They danced about the room, carefully avoiding the large desk in the center. Petyr hummed one of the tunes the musicians had plucked earlier. If Sansa caught on that it was the same song she graced Harry’s presence with, she said nothing. Petyr only wished there had been  _ singing _ . Some songs sounded so much better with words. Especially the bawdy ones.

          Petyr had watched her the entire night, permitting his attention wasn’t snagged by someone  _ annoying _ , like the blundering Lord Grafton, or the haughty sneers of Breakstone or Waynwood who understood full well the kindly  _ gifts _ bestowed upon the lords and knights from Lord Royce. All ideas given to Nestor by Petyr, of course, who in turn thought them his own splendid ideas.

          But Petyr had watched her the entire night, especially during her dances with the Young Falcon. How she made him laugh, how he twirled her and managed (surprisingly) not to step on her toes. Petyr watched her dance with nearly every knight who entered the lists, and a slew of lords, too. But watching Sansa with Harry had him gripping his goblet tight. Imagining, perhaps, it was the boy’s throat between his fingers instead.

          He saw the realization in Sansa’s face as Petyr twirled her then, just as Harry would have, to the same tune that they had danced to. 

_ Am I better than your knightly husband-to-be? _

          “Beautiful,” he murmured as the dance brought her body against his, back to chest. Petyr swiped away the curls from the back of her neck with his nose, inhaling the scent of her. Sweet and sweat and the unmistakable citrus that always clung to her skin, as if she had been born in a copse of lemons and oranges. Petyr planted a kiss to her nape – humming the notes into her skin –  just before the song had them breaking apart.

          They were panting when they’d finished. Sansa looked even  _ more _ beautiful with her face flushed, with curls sticking to her cheeks.

          “You like dance and song, don’t you sweetling?”

          Sansa smiled then, something small. “Yes. The last I danced this much was....was at Lady Lysa’s wedding.”

          He remembered that, though Petyr hadn’t the chance to spy Sansa dancing with his once-wife’s retinue of knights with how much Lysa  _ demanded  _ his attention. Petyr better remembered what came after: the meagre serving ladies and Sansa leading him up to the bedchamber for the bedding. He had to keep a level of  _ propriety _ when undoing some of Sansa’s laces – what good would it do to have gossip of Petyr’s wandering fingers over his beloved daughter? Oh, but Sansa’s wandering fingers and eyes had gotten their own fill of Petyr. He couldn’t help but smile – then, and now. “And back home? Did you dance much”

          There was a wistfulness in Sansa’s eyes – a flash, gone just as quick as it had come. “Yes, Father. Mostly lessons with my Septa and friend. Although…”

          “ _ Although _ …?” He usually didn’t press for her past, because there wasn’t much  _ to _ press that wasn’t in the typical Lady-in-waiting structure of courtesies and thank yous. And because it never was  _ safe _ to ask about her past. She was clever enough to mask her lies with vagueness. But among throngs of shrewd lords and ladies waiting for any lie – Sansa would need to be very, very clever these coming days.

          Her gaze had fallen to the wall behind him, slowly finding its way back. “Although, no one had ever danced with me like  _ that _ before.”

          Petyr poured himself half a cup of wine, suddenly thirsty. And to mask the overpowering need that thrummed in his veins - the scent of her alone did wicked things to his cock. “If you don’t need to retire to your chambers just yet, I wouldn’t mind teaching my sweet daughter a thing or two to bewitch men further.” 

          Sansa, it seemed, had gone thirsty, too. She drained whatever remained of her first cup, though didn’t need any additional courage. She lowered the goblet upon the table, fingering the rim. Petyr couldn’t help but watch the motion. “What will Harry expect of me? I  _ am _ a bastard, after all, and Myranda talks about how brazen bastards should be.”

_ Myranda _ was a conversation for later. Petyr needed to understand the depth of that girl’s shrewd understanding. Of how far she weaseled her way into Sansa’s head with smiles and laughter. “A bastard girl usually is brazen, true. That’s the nature of children who don’t grow up sheltered by expectations and Septas.” Not a jab at Sansa, necessarily. Petyr wasn’t surprised that she took it that way. “But my girl… There’s something  _ enticing _ about innocence that any man – Harry included – is drawn to.”

          “Why?” Sansa blurted. Petyr realized that she had stopped circling the rim of her goblet, that her gaze had been focused on his. 

_ Innocence and experience make for a perfect marriage _ , he remembered telling her once. “Well, for one, it helps him think he’s  _ better _ than he actually is, if you have no one to compare him to.” 

          “I see.”

          It was the wine. The wine, the countless cups of wine. The way Sansa’s fingers resumed trailing the lip of the goblet, slow, sure circles. The dart of her tongue over suddenly dry lips as she mulled over his words. The errant brown curls that stuck to her cheeks. It was the wine and the heady scent of her skin still lingering in his nostrils that made Petyr ask, “Would you like a means of  _ comparison _ , sweetling?”

          Again, her hand stopped. 

          It wasn't a _no_ , he assured himself. Were Sansa truly appalled by the notion of _dancing_ with her dear lord Father, she never would have entertained him in his room tonight. Nor would she avert her eyes.

          Petyr held his hand out an inch in front of hers, itching to trail his fingers over her smooth skin, as he said, “Come, Alayne. I'll show you a new dance you might try with Harry.”

          Sansa – after a moment's hesitation – took his hand. She let out a small cry when Petyr pulled her into him, leading Sansa into a dance that  _ required  _ absolutely no space between their chests. It was something from Dorne, though the name eluded him. Dornish dancing was  _ sinful _ . Usually more so than simple fucking. Hands moving over bodies, faces close, bodies pressed against and between and atop - so close, a loose strand of hair couldn’t pass between them.

          As Petyr again hummed a quick tune for their movements, he felt Sansa relax against his grip. Even as he explained the low-dip of his hands over her waist as being the  _ normal _ for Dornish dances. Sansa wouldn’t know, either way.

          “Certainly you've been  _ informed  _ about how a woman can use her body to bewitch men?” They were still dancing – Petyr sent Sansa spinning out for a beat. She likely hadn't the opportunity to learn new dances ever since she stepped foot in King's Landing those many moons ago. Still, she kept up with his steps, adjusting any errors with a certain fluidity that made Petyr forget how young she truly was. But here, at arm's reach, her flushed face caught by the wall sconce – Petyr couldn't ever forget her youth. Or her beauty.

          “Yes, Father. Myranda especially is fond of trying to make me blush.” Petyr led her around him, careful not to step on her skirts, until Sansa was once again trapped beneath his hands. He trailed fingers down her sides – from shoulder to waist, curving around to her ass – which elicited a small gasp of surprise (or of want?). Either way, it was the sweetest sound. 

          “What  _ sorts _ of things does Myranda say?” He hoped Sansa understood the  _ things  _ Petyr was interested in. Especially the things he was very, very interested in doing with, to, and for his lovely daughter. 

          A pause, in which Petyr wound their dance down into a simple sway. He would have liked to keep going, but gods if he wasn’t tired. Petyr kept his fingers firmly pressed against her waist, waiting.

          She understood his game – Petyr wasn't going to release her until she spoke (well, Petyr would release her if she asked. Sansa could ask for  _ anything  _ and Petyr would give her it. And more, so much more. He had yet to decide whether it was a pity or a blessing Sansa hadn't caught on to how  _ deep  _ his affections lay). Sansa inched her hands from their  _ proper  _ place upon his shoulders. Up and up, until her arms rested on either side of his neck. Her fingers found their way just beneath the edge at the back of his collar, scratching skin in small strokes. The movement sent shivers down Petyr's spine. 

          “Just… _ things _ .”

          The simpleness after such a long, drawn-out pause… Petyr pressed his fingers harder into her hips. He hoped there would be ten brown circles painting her skin come dawn. “Perhaps my daughter isn't the  _ brazen bastard  _ everyone expects her to be, if she can't talk gossip with her own father.” He  _ tsk _ ed at her, egging her own, letting his lips curl up into a smile. 

          Except Petyr didn't allow Sansa to respond. Spinning her around so again her back was to his chest. One hand laying flat against her thigh, pushing her into him. The other upon her stomach, just beneath her small breasts. Not  _ firm  _ enough to force her, never like that. 

          Besides, he could feel her body relaxing against his. Even as his cock strained in the spaceless gap between them.

          “Was it something like this, sweetling, hmm?” Petyr trailed his hand slowly up and down her thigh, the movement inhibited by her skirts. Much  _ better  _ were it skin on skin, true. Petyr had half a mind to lift her dress up and off her completely – and half a mind to understand not to. Besides, Petyr wanted Sansa to ask for it. To beg for it.

          When the journey had his hand swiping over her core, lingering there, he felt her hold her breath. Waiting. Hoping? But Petyr let his hand fall back in its path. 

          “Sort of.” Sansa finally said, as if forgetting there had been a question left in the air for her. Petyr couldn't help but smile.

          “Perhaps Randa talked about the pleasure derived from her breasts?” His hand upon her stomach crept up and around, knuckles grazing the side of her breast. “Hers are ample enough for every woman in the Gates, surely.”

          “Do you prefer her breasts, Father?” Sansa asked, though it was more breath than voice. He could tell she was  _ trying  _ to pay attention to his words with the same focus she gave to his hands. All he had to do was press a little harder, swipe just a fraction closer to her nipple. Sansa was so innocent and responsive – Petyr couldn't help the twitch in his cock. 

          “They are large, yes. Many a man enjoy drowning in a woman's chest. But I'd much rather have my daughter’s.” Petyr punctuated it by finally swiping thumb over her nipple through her dress. Even through the fabric, it was hard.

          That seemed to make Sansa happy. 

          “A good thing to remember, sweetling,” he began, not forgetting to give her attention with his other hand, which drew dangerously close over the the join of her thighs again with every climb.  _ That  _ would have to wait, despite how  _ aching  _ Petyr was to touch her. Taste her. “Is to give something with the promise of  _ more _ .”

          Sansa took a few moments to respond. She always did – not used to being touched with  _ care _ , with  _ love _ (or whatever twisted thing this was between them. Petyr hadn't thought it was  _ pure  _ enough to be love). “What will you be giving me tonight?”

_ Everything you could ever want, could ever need.  _

          Petyr answered her by parting the brown curls draping over the back of her neck. Running a trail down her exposed skin with lips, tongue, teeth. Sansa shuddered beneath him. Petyr pulled her body into his – could she feel his  _ desire  _ for her? she must – as he pushed his mouth just below the bone. Biting and sucking at her flesh until he was sure his  _ mark  _ would remain. 

          As he moved to admire the angry red claiming Sansa as  _ not so innocent,  _ he added, “My favor to wear.” A thought crept into Petyr's mind. “Do you imagine Harry being upset were he to see a love bite someone left you?” 

          “Maybe.” Petyr could hear Sansa was fighting to pull words, to pull coherence, out of her lips. “Although I think he would be  _ most upset  _ if he found out who gave it to me.”

          “Then you best not tell him,” lathing over the bruise with his tongue.  _ The Vale would despise me more than they already do if they knew what I did – what I want to do – to my ‘daughter’. And when I reveal you as the Stark you are…  _

          No good would come from this improper relationship. 

          But gods if it didn't feel good.

          Petyr bit the join of her neck and shoulder. If he could  _ consume  _ Sansa completely - heart and soul and flesh - he would.

          “ _ Father _ .” Not a question. Yet. Petyr didn't relent his hands as he waited for Sansa to collect her thoughts. The hand beside her breast grew the courage to travel across her chest to fondle the other, rolling and pinching the nipples through her dress. Thumb swiped at the collar where her chest was modestly covered – and wondered how immodest she was willing to go.

          His hand traveled higher, across the expanse of her chest exposed by the neckline, trailing up her neck with fingernails digging lightly at the porcelain skin. Higher: across jaw, chin, until finally circling her perfect lips. Petyr wished he could see her face – how Sansa was torn between  _ wanting  _ this and pushing him away. Petyr could feel it, though, that uncertainty. Except it was drowned out by base need; by the the rocking of her body into his, the way she pushed her breasts into his hand.

          Silently Petyr asked her permission as one finger ran along the line of her lips. Would she open up to him? Would she open up to him  _ of it weren't his finger  _ that wanted access to her mouth? 

          It could go either way. 

          So when Sansa – who had been, knowingly or not, rolling her hips back and forth to the rhythm of his other hand, and whose own hands reached back for his purchase upon his body –  _ did _ part for him… Petyr entered her mouth slowly with one, slender finger. 

          He debated telling her what to do. Myranda might have explained brusquely how a woman could use her mouth to please a man, but Petyr was curious. How much did Sansa know, truly? How much  _ teaching  _ was Petyr going to have to do? 

          Sansa closed her mouth around him, asking silently  _ Is this right?  _ Petyr answered with his lips pressed against her neck and his finger sliding slowly in and out. Exploring her (in preparation, he told himself, of his  _ other finger _ ). He didn't linger long, removing himself after only a few seconds. “Good job sweetling,” he said into her neck, casting it off with a short kiss.

          Petyr oh so  _ patiently _ waited for Sansa to collect her thoughts. And whatever thoughts Sansa was imagining, Petyr hoped he was firmly in the center of them. 

          When she adjusted herself against him, her ass rubbing against his cock, it took all his willpower not to take her then and there.

          “Father…” she gasped.

          “Yes, sweetling?” An innocent question. Asking _whatever_ _is the matter_? Placing his lips against her neck again, inhaling her and tasting her. Thrusting very slightly against her. Relishing in her cries, in the way she tried to move back against him. As if he wasn't the _cause_ for her struggle.

          And then Sansa pulled away against Petyr's encircled arms. He let her go ignoring the upset whispers in his mind. But he listened instead to the whispers that something might be wrong. 

          If Sansa denied him now and forever, he wouldn’t stop her leaving. It was her choice, after all.

          She turned then, her hair a wave of beautiful tresses caught in the faint torchlight. Sansa’s face was pink, her eyes dark, her breath short gasps.

          But Sansa was smiling. “If I say  _ good night  _ now, Father, would that be a  _ promise of more _ ?” 

          The momentary fear that he'd  _ gone too far _ dissipated the moment her lips turned into a mirror of his own. Petyr collected his breath pretending like he hadn't been seconds away – hadn't been one more push of her ass against him, or one futile plea of  _ Petyr please –  _ from losing himself. “Yes. Very good, sweetling. Although Harry might not be willing to stop.”  _ Gods know I don't want to _ . 

          He had half a mind to  _ reward  _ her for her performance. Granted, a lot of it might not have been acting, but still. The fact she had the courage to do so was cause for reward. And were she to actually say good night, well, Petyr would just need to imagine his hand was hers. 

          “Maybe  _ this _ would be better?” Sansa asked, closing the gap between them and placing her soft, warm fingers atop his hardness. Petyr's breath caught. He clenched his fists to keep them from doing something irrevocably rash – no matter how  _ desperately  _ he wanted to. 

          “Maybe. Let's play a game, then, shall we?” His fingernails were so close to drawing blood from palms. “Imagine I'm your brave, tall, gallant Harry, and you need to  _ seduce  _ me. Clearly you managed well enough with your tongue-” he didn't bother biting back a smile, “-but Harry will  _ expect  _ actions, not words. Especially were he to win tomorrow. What would you give our Young Falcon?”

          Teaching. That's what this was, the whole of it. Perhaps that's how Sansa was rationalizing her uncertainty.

          Petyr didn't need to rationalize it. Only to keep it in check. 

          He thrusted into her hand, just enough to make Sansa’s eyes widen. 

          “I never gave him my favor, though.”

          “No. But this would be his  _ proof  _ that you should have. And after your performance tonight, surely he will seek you out tomorrow.”

          Sansa thought on it. Courtesies of a lady warring with the brashness of a bastard. Petyr wished she could see how beautiful she was, lost in her thoughts. The way her brows knit a small canyon between them. The faraway look on splendid blue eyes, casting them  _ darker _ . Or maybe that was the lingering desire? Probably.

          She spoke: “Congratulations, Ser. I never thought you had the bravery to win, let alone best every other knight. A pity I hadn't given my favor to a knight that  _ would  _ win their Wings.” She stepped forward and placed a soft, chaste kiss to his lips. “May you fly high above the Vale.”

_ Platitudes with a bit of bite _ . He smiled at her. “Good. Although I must ask: you will be saying all these compliments whilst your hand is on his manhood?”

          Sansa realized she'd left her hand there and tore it away, blushing. 

          Petyr chuckled. “Oh, but I assure you, if you  _ did  _ keep your hand there, it wouldn't matter what you say. You could call Harry an oaf. The worst knight in all of the seven kingdoms who smells of rotten meat. And all he would care about is when you finish talking so he could take you, if he bothered to wait.”

          That made Sansa blush harder. It made Petyr laugh again. And made him miss the roaring waves of auburn that much more. 

          But Sansa found her hidden bastard boldness when she asked: “How  _ would  _ Harry expect me to deal with his…with his manhood?”

          Were they still talking about gallant Harry the Heir? It didn't matter – they could be discussing Moon Boy or some other fool. So long as the  _ truth  _ was understood between them. 

          Besides, Petyr rightly didn't care, not when he had an opportunity to be a doting father and teach valuable life lessons to his daughter. It would be  _ rude  _ to deprive Sansa of important learning.

          “As a bastard, you need to remember not to be  _ embarrassed  _ by saying or doing such things, even if you are my daughter.” Or pretending to be a dutiful follower of the Seven. But Sansa wasn't  _ so religious _ if she was curious about such matters. “There's nothing shameful about  _ cock  _ or  _ cunt  _ or  _ fucking _ .”  _ Says the man who ran a brothel _ . 

          Sansa ran through them, punctuating each word with a slow stroke over his cock. When she finished, she took her hand away, staring at him, asking  _ Is this okay? _

          The words somehow sounded  _ dirtier  _ coming from her pretty pink lips. He couldn't help but imagine what else he could bring from her mouth – begs and moans and the cry of his name. “Good,” Petyr breathed. 

          He grabbed hold of her wrist, startling Sansa. Calming her with slow, certain strokes up and down his hardness. _Showing_ _her_ how to touch a man. To make it feel good. It took a considerable effort to keep the pace steady. His voice, too. “Men like different things when it comes to their pleasure, sweetling. A good thing to remember should you ever seduce someone else.” _Don't._ “But…”

          “But…?”

          “But, nearly all men get off on the thrill of debasing a pure woman. Of taking her innocence, and being the first to fuck her.”

          Sansa wasn’t fighting his grip, which was a good sign Petyr hadn't gone  _ too far _ yet. “Is it truly special? A woman's…first?”

          “I've only a cock, so I can't say. But according to whores, no. They much prefer it when they and their partner know what's going on. Makes it that much more  _ pleasurable  _ when there's experience involved.”

_ Innocence and experience.  _

          “Would Harry…”

          “…know that you are as innocent as they come? Of course.” Petyr ran his tongue over his lips, fully away that Sansa was watching the motion from his periphery. “If my sweet girl would like to go into her match with experience, I would be more than happy to teach her.”

          Because it  _ had _ to come from Sansa's own lips. What fun would it be to  _ take, _ when the thrill existed in breaking her down bit by bit? 

          She turned her gaze to the side, biting her lip, thinking. Debating. Wondering, whether this was a  _ good  _ idea. Which it wasn't, not if she still cared about moral standing with herself (because no one had to know  _ who  _ she got the experience from). 

          When she spoke her teeth had left little crescents on her bottom lip. “Can you teach me?”

          Petyr's heart skipped a beat, two. Because the blood had rushed out of it. “Teach you  _ what _ ?”

          She stepped a foot closer, hand still resting over his cock. Blue eyes penetrating the very marrow of his bones as Sansa said, “ _ Please,  _ Father. Please teach me how to please a man.”

          Something tugged at Petyr, more than just the need that thrummed between his legs. He’d imagined those words from her sweet lips more times than he could count - and gods if it didn’t sound better in real life.

          “Only because you asked so sweetly.” He leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss to the edge of her mouth – the innocence of it tasted almost as  _ sinful _ as what he was about to teach her. Almost. “Though it is late, so I must ask you: would you prefer to use your hands, or your mouth?”

_ Or your cunt? _

          A flash of realization – that this was actually happening, that she had quite literally  _ begged _ her father for it – shadowed Sansa’s face. Was she about to back out now, with the act just before her? Petyr wasn’t sure if he would survive the  _ tease _ of it all. 

          “I… I think hands would be good for tonight.” 

          Petyr grew giddy at her use of  _ tonight _ . If he didn't scare her off, there  _ would  _ be more lessons. In things far more sinful than even his own daughter could conceive. He smiled at her without any shred of fatherly kindness to it. “Good.” 

          Petyr lightly grasped her arms and led them to his bed, sitting down whilst Sansa stood (which was horrible – all he would be able to think of was lowering her onto him and taking her innocence. If he were lucky the lesson would last longer than a few seconds).

          He continued. “You've already gotten me hard, sweetling, so congratulations on completing the first step. Were it Harry, you'd want to tease him with the  _ idea  _ of more, especially if you plan on giving him just that. Kiss him, touch him, make him yearn for you and what pleasure you could give him. The longer you keep it up, the easier the rest will be.”

          Sansa nodded. He waited to see if she had any questions or clarifications, but she didn't say anything. Only worried at her lip again. It was cute. 

          “Take my cock out, Sansa.” She started at the use of her name – but Petyr didn't want the facade of her, not when she was finally giving in to the darkness. When she hadn't moved, Petyr motioned to it with his chin. “Unless you've forgotten where it is…”

          She didn't. Sansa undid the laces of his breeches with a certain meticulousness that Petyr knew was nerves. Sometimes fingertips brushed over his bulge – whether intentional or not – and Petyr gripped the furs to center himself. How easy it would be to ruin her newly-found courage. 

          A pause when the laces were all undone. Sansa trailed a finger from the bottom to the top edge of the breeches. Stared at her hands as they dived beneath fabric to free him. 

          Petyr’s breath hitched when her flesh found his. He watched intently as Sansa lifted his cock out, running her fingernails lightly up the length. Exploring what it was that made a man a man.

          Gods, this was going to be a short lesson. 

          She spoke quietly enough that Petyr knew he wasn't meant to hear it: “It's not that little…” But he did.

          “I'm sorry sweetling?” That startled her. “Have you many men to compare me to that I don't know of?”

          “No! I…!” She out her hands up defensively. “Myranda often jokes about, erm, the  _ size  _ of your  _ finger _ and whether or not it truly is  _ little _ ...”

          Myranda was a dangerous creature, yes. But – well, Petyr couldn't ignore the implication that because of her, Sansa had thought of his  _ finger  _ more than once. He smiled at the thought. “Well unlucky for her, she isn't the first person to craft the joke. I must admit it's gotten quite stale over the years.”

          His words eased the embarrassment from her cheeks. Which was quickly replaced with a new flush of  _ I'm going to give my Father a hand job _ . A deeper, fuller shade of red painted her face. 

          A deeper, fuller shade of pitch black perverted Tully blue. 

          Petyr eased her into it with as much fatherly wisdom as he could muster. “Wrap your hand around the shaft. Just like that sweetling, good. Use your thumb to wipe seed from the tip to ease your motions. Yes, perfect.” Sansa adjusted herself between his legs. Stroking timidly, not sure what to do. Not yet. “As you move up and down you'll want to adjust the pressure. But not too much – then you'll instill fear that you might rip it off. And no man gets hard from that.” 

          Sansa followed his instructions, up and down, slowly working at his cock with a slowness that was driving him mad. Up and down. Petyr’s toes clenched in his boots as he struggled against the urge to thrust against her hand. 

          He took several breaths to calm his voice. “Good, good. A little tighter. A little faster.”

          She did as she was told. Learning with each stroke up and down, catching the small changes in Petyr's breath when she squeezed just right. Did she catch how tightly his hands gripped the mattress? How intent his gaze was where her slender fingers moved around and over his cock? How  _ often  _ he dreamed of this? She must have. 

          “ _ Gods _ ,” escaped his lips when Sansa found that perfect rhythm, pumping his cock faster with more courage. He began matching her rhythm, thrusting into her fingers as she went. She startled at first - then moved faster, tighter. Watching her dear father crumble beneath her touch.

          Petyr's fingers hurt clutching the bed, imagining instead it was Sansa's hips that he clung to. Leaving marks on her skin. Claiming her hips and body as his, as he had done to her neck. 

          Petyr thrust sharply into her hand. “I'm going to come sweetling.” A warning – because this was likely the first cock she had touched and seen in the throes of pleasure. It took only a few seconds before his release found him. When he came, Sansa jumped back. Not fast enough, his seed shooting onto the front of her dress where it wasn't blocked by her hands. Just the sight of his come coating her fingers,  _ defiling her _ , could have made him come again.

          Sansa tested the consistency of it between her fingers (did the idea of  _ tasting  _ his desire cross her mind? Would she do it if Petyr asked?) before wiping the  _ mess  _ on her ruined dress. No matter – Petyr would buy his daughter a hundred, a thousand more, for what she'd done. 

          He could feel his heart in his fingertips and toes. The waves of his pleasure drowned out all sounds but the erratic  _ badump badump _ crashing against his ribs.

          Petyr stared at Sansa. Wondered if he looked as wild as he felt – and that was only from her hand. Gods knew what would happen had Sansa offered to use her mouth. 

          Seconds paused, minutes. Waiting for his body to come back down from that lovely high. Slow blinks, slow breaths. Tucking his cock back into his breeches but not bothering to lace up. Petyr offered his hand to Sansa to  _ come forward _ , setting her on his knees. She did, careful to avoid ruining her dress further. They stayed like that in silence, her breathing and his heart and the quiet flickering of torchlight the only sounds. Until finally Petyr felt comfortable enough that his voice wouldn’t betray the quiet coolness he tried for. “I think it would be kind to  _ thank  _ my daughter for being such a wonderful pupil, don't you?”

          Sansa's eyes widened – but her own need was overtaking logic, overtaking any notion that  _ this was wrong _ . Because how could it be, when the ache between her legs felt strangely good? So Sansa nodded. 

_ I'll show you what good feels like.  _

          Carefully he gripped Sansa’s hand and maneuvered her to sit beside him atop the bed. Kissing her  _ thank you _ on her lips. Then continued the journey until she was lying atop his furs, her hair a halo of soft curls framing pink-tinged ivory skin. 

          He'd be lying if he said he never dreamed of something like this. 

          Petyr tangled a hand in her hair, wishing it was the vibrant auburn that he loved. Swiped thumb along her cheek, her jaw. She was warm. Staring up at him, pressing her face into his touch. 

          Sansa was so fucking  _ sweet _ . But he had to know: “Have you ever touched yourself, sweetling?”

          Sansa – again, that realization that something  _ improper  _ was happening, something she likely should say no to but couldn't form the words (or didn't want to?) – shook her head. “No, Father.”

          A lightness filled his heart. Tonight was a night of firsts, then. A night of firsts that Petyr got to willingly take from her. But he didn't want to test his luck whether Sansa would offer  _ another first.  _ Maybe, but not tonight. 

          “Lift up your skirts, sweetling.”

          Her fingers worried at the hem, fighting against her own whispers of logic that told her to  _ stop.  _ That told her (probably):  _ he's your father  _ (technically).  _ He's far older than all those shining knights you once dreamt of. The look in his eyes is the furthest from kind or pure _ . 

          Up Sansa’s fingers went, bringing along the fabric in a soft rustle. 

          Petyr watched intently the growing expanse of her thighs. Counted the moles as they appeared (two on one leg and one on the other). Marveled in how smooth they were, how pure. 

          Wondered the possibility that he could leave marks up and down her skin. A secret, shared by them in locked rooms, of what vulgar sins they lost themselves to. 

          When the dress rose above her small clothes, Sansa waited patiently, dutifully. Petyr couldn't help running the tips of his fingers up, from her ankle to knee to just beneath the  _ obstruction  _ of fabric. Under his touch, he felt Sansa shudder. 

          Petyr’s fingers crossed one leg to the other via the bridge of her smallclothes, lingering above where he could smell her desire. Lightly pressing into her until she couldn't help let out a small gasp. It was a heady drug – her scent, her responses to his touch – urging him forward. “And your smallclothes, sweetling.”

          She did, as slow as she could muster. Not nearly fast enough for him. 

          Red. Beautiful auburn red, short tight curls splayed between ivory skin. He wanted nothing more than to drown himself between her legs. 

          Petyr licked his lips, dragging his gaze back up to blue. What did he look like, he wondered. Crazy, feral, his own desire taking control. Logic holding on just enough to prevent him from plunging himself inside her. 

          He left a soft kiss on her jaw. Another on the corner of her lips. Whispered into her mouth, “For my beautiful daughter, I'll make you feel as good as you made me.”Petyr dragged his fingers up her leg again, stopping at her entrance. “Ask me to touch you.”

          Sansa waited half a heartbeat before she said, “Please, Father. Please touch me.”

          Her cunt was as wet as he hoped. And her cries - gods, it was the most beautiful music known to man. 

          Petyr fucked her with slow, sure strokes. She was already wet and wanting - from touching him, a vulgar thought that got him wanting again. Sansa was overwhelmed with his touches, with the way played with her clit. 

          He was torn: between letting her moans fill his ears, or devouring the taste of her pleasure with his mouth. 

          Eventually he did, kissing her with an open mouth. Biting her lips as his fingers flicked her clit. Relishing in the way her body arched into it. In the sounds that echoed from her own soul deep down into his.

          Petyr entered a second finger inside her, moving faster, faster. Quietly urging her:  _ come for me sweetling _ .

          She did.

          Sansa rolled her head back, riding the waves of her pleasure as Petyr continued thrusting his fingers inside her, drawing it out for as long as possible. If he made sure this felt fucking amazing… It was likely Sansa would creep into his chambers late at night, asking him for more.

          And he would be  _ rude _ to deny her such things.

          Petyr released her mouth. Watched her as she experienced true pleasure - a thousand times better than the crisp taste of a lemon cake, or the white snow drifting through the godswood reminding her of home. Peaceful. Beautiful. 

          He trailed his fingers along her slit,relishing in how she  _ still  _ rolled her hips into the movement. Relishing in how wet she had become.  _ Because of me _ . 

          He felt his cock twitch again. Begging his mind to forget all logic and take his sweetling then and there. Sansa  _ wanted  _ it, too – she never would have touched him or let Petyr touch her if she didn't. 

          Petyr wanted her for weeks, months. A few more days wouldn't hurt. Not when Sansa shuffled into his rooms late one night, lifting her shift over her head, sliding her body down onto his between sheets. Moaning as he thrust into her until all she knew was his name. 

          Yes, it would be so much fucking better that way. And not too long now.

          Sansa’s eyes were open now, her soul finding its place back inside her skin. Petyr lifted his fingers from her cunt, lapping over her need with slow, meticulous strokes of his tongue. Not wanting to waste any.

          She had watched him lick her need off his fingers, eyes wide, mouth parted. Petyr saw the hardened tips of her nipples poking through the heavy dress. Sansa’s gaze was glued to the sight of him sucking fingers clean, even long after her sweetness was gone. Petyr smiled at her. Did she picture his tongue sucking and licking at her cunt, as precise and thorough as his fingers? Because gods knew Petyr had. Often. 

          Sansa was out of breath, her voice low as she said, “Do you think I’ll be good enough for Harry?” 

_ That _ question again. Which wasn’t without reason – Petyr’s entire plan rested on the fact that Sansa had to woo the boy. To earn his affections, earn the honor of carrying his child and carrying the Hardying name (though in truth Arryn had a better sound to it. And  _ Baelish _ …well, that was merely a childish dream). She had to do all of that before their dear Sweetrobin fell into a sickness the Maester would be unable to cure him of. Petyr still needed to determine if the Maester was the best choice to inherit blame Robert's death. After all, Petyr or Sansa had no idea how lethal sweetsleep was, and the Maester should have known better to give the little lord so much.

          But Sansa. Sansa was clever. And beautiful.

          “Of course, sweetling.”  _ Harry isn’t good enough for you _ . Petyr urged Sansa up to sit beside him, place a single soft kiss on her lips. She must have tasted her need on his. But Petyr couldn't let the kiss linger – no matter how desperately he wanted to – because then he would never want to say farewell. His body was already screaming at him not to let her go. To push her back down onto the furs and continue his lessons. “We've a long day ahead of us, daughter. You'd best get some sleep.”

          Dutifully, she combed fingers through her hair, lowered her ruined skirts down over her thighs. The picture of perfect propriety. Assuming no one got close enough to detect the certain lingering  _ sin  _ that clung to her skin. “Thank you for the lesson, Father. Good night.”

          “Good night, Alayne.”

          He hoped –  _ knew –  _ that she would be dreaming of him just before she fell asleep. 

          Petyr decided it then. Well not then, he'd decided long, long ago. But gods if tonight didn't cement the thought in his mind. Harry would  _ never _ have Sansa, not truly. She was Petyr's. 

          He would make sure of that. 

 


End file.
